


Honey With You and a Little Powered Radio

by thispieceofmind



Series: it's the colors, i see them in your eyes [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofmind/pseuds/thispieceofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is the lead singer and bassist in an indie band and is dealing with abandonment issues, and Louis is a famous radio show host.</p><p> <i>"There’s color in Louis, Harry thinks. He wonders if it might be red."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey With You and a Little Powered Radio

Harry is smooth. Not in his ways, but smooth like his maroon bass guitar and his voice pouring out of a speaker and his fingertips sliding up mic stand. He feels smooth where he is right now, fingers walking along the strings of his guitar, staring out at a group of people who are absolutely raving as he sings along to the closing song of their set. He feels brighter than maroon, though, he feels _red_ like everything is bright and clear, and he is absolutely on fire. The speakers are loud and the crowd is louder, and he hasn’t felt this alive in weeks. The room is buzzing, and so is he. 

When he closes the show, Nate and Zayn are saying their own thank you’s into their mics and the music at the bar starts up and then it’s just them again, cleaning up the stage with the help of the staff, and Harry’s red hot dies down to burgundy again. It’s a nice transition, he thinks, from searing to cool, a post show thrill that still runs through his veins long after he’s finished being up there, on that stage where all eyes are on him and the two guys who are at his side. It feels like home. He reaches for his microphone again before he heads off stage and mutters something to the chatty crowd about them being at the bar with their first EP if anyone is interested. 

Their things are packed up in the van, but they retreat back to the bar stools. They’re maroon, too. Harry pulls on a loose hair from Nate’s bun as they sit, and the bartender sees they were act that played, compliments them, and gives them a free round of beers. Another perk of performing, Harry thinks. He’s laughing with his bandmates at something one of them said, before turning away when he feels a tap on his shoulder and hears a familiar voice in his ear. When he turns, he doesn’t recognize the face. 

“Hey, mate! I’ve just seen the show, and you lads were amazing! Mind if I ask for a CD?” 

The guy’s smile is big and his eyes are gleaming in the low lighting of the bar, but Harry completely ignores his question, staring him right in the face with a confused expression as Nate and Zayn laugh about something he totally missed. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he blurts, and then realizes he probably sounded like the biggest prick to ever grace the Earth, so he stammers out, “I mean, not that I don’t want you talking to me, it’s just that you seem familiar. Like, not your face, but your voice? I dunno, I’m sorry I–” He stops himself, knowing he sounds like a right idiot. 

The guy laughs, and his pretty smile grows wider. “My name’s Louis Tomlinson. I’m a radio show host on BBC.” 

And the Harry flushes bright red. “Shit, man. You’re like, _famous,_ and I’ve just gone an made a complete arse out of myself.” 

“Nah,” Louis says, and his grin is still there so Harry takes that as a good sign. He plops himself down in the barstool next Harry and hooks his feet on the railing below the counter. “Have you got a CD I can take a look at?” 

“Of course,” Harry blurts, and this is _Louis Tomlinson,_ who he listens to every morning when he wakes up, with the high, raspy voice and enthusiasm that never fails to make his morning. He reaches into the bag he has sitting just next to his stool and pulls out one of the cases, shiny silver album covering reflecting light. “It’s just our EP, s’only five songs. First one.” 

“That’s great!” Louis exclaims, and the pure happiness and honest zeal in his voice makes Harry giddy. He likes how genuine he seems; it’s something he tries to be. “How much are you selling it for?”

Harry smiles a little bashfully. “Just five quid. Not pushing it, really.” Louis’ grin still hasn’t faded as he pulls out the cash and places it next to Harry’s drink. Harry takes it gratefully and puts it in a little pouch that’s inside the bigger bag. “Thanks, mate, really means a lot.”

“Of course,” Louis murmurs, and there’s that genuineness in his voice again. Harry likes it. He _really_ likes it. “Great show you lads put on.”

“Really?” Harry lets out before he can stop himself.

“Yeah!” Louis exclaims, like he can’t believe Harry’s doubting himself at all. “A few of my mates from the station came down and watched it as well. They ditched a bit earlier, but I was itching for the CD. Great jam you had going.”

Harry’s grin feels like it’s going to split his face. “Thank you so much, Louis, seriously, it means a lot.” He pauses for a moment. “Especially coming from you.”

Louis shakes his head and brushes his fringe out of his eyes. He laughs. “I’m nothing special, mate, I just make fun of celebrities and annoy people to all of Britain. Now you, you’ve got some talent.”

Harry blushes again. He’s not gotten this many compliments in as long as he can remember. “I feel like if I keep saying thank you I’ll sound like a broken record.” He turns an even brighter red. “Do people even use that expression anymore? Or listen to records? I mean, I do, but…”

Louis laughs. “You’re cool, Harry. I like you.” Maybe, Harry thinks, he listens to records, too.

He coughs and tries to get himself together. “You’re not too bad yourself.” He notes in the back of his head that he never properly introduced himself, and that Louis remembered his name from the show. He also realizes that it shouldn’t make him as happy as it does. 

Louis smiles again (they’ve been doing a lot of that) and glances down at the CD in his hand. “Self-titled?” he asks. Harry nods. “Crystal Veins. Sick, man, I like that.”

Harry laughs before he says again, “Thanks.” 

Louis laughs with him before asking who his musical inspiration is. And that was how they started a conversation about music. They bounce artists back and forth off of each other like trampolines, and some of Harry’s are obscure, but Louis makes mental notes to check them out. They discuss who they like and who they don’t, and recent albums and old albums and their guilty pleasures. Harry finds that Louis really loves a lot of the music he does, and while he’s not in as deep, Harry can appreciate almost anything, and so can Louis. There’s color in Louis, Harry thinks. He wonders if it might be red. 

Harry can’t help but appreciate Louis’ beauty. He finds himself just a little bit enamored as he talks to him, still nursing his single beer. He’s bright, Louis. He shines when he speaks and is filled with a fervor that is radiant when he expresses himself. His eyes sparkle and his hair is ruffled and feathery. Harry likes him. He knows his him from the sound pouring through his radio every morning, but to be able to match a voice to a face is nicer than he’d imagined. He had never bothered to look him up, but now that he sees how stunning he is, the pure passion that shows through his expressions, he’s very happy to have met him. 

Several other people come by amidst their conversation for a CD, and Louis is always polite about stopping whatever he’s saying and letting a gentle smile spread across his face at Harry reaching down into his brown bag. There’s always a goofy grin on Harry’s face as he hands over the disc and bashfully accepts the compliment that’s sent his way. Harry’s modest and just the slightest bit doubtful of himself. He hopes that Louis doesn’t find it off-putting. 

It’s more than an hour later when Louis excuses himself with a gentle sigh, and Harry thinks he might just be a little disappointed that he has to leave. Zayn and Nate are long lost on the dance floor, Nate most likely with some girl he found, and Zayn grinding somewhere with Liam that will most likely grant them looks of disdain. He knows they won’t care. Louis stands with a disappointed smile as he looks at his phone again to make sure he’s not fooling himself with the time. 

“I’ve got to go, Harry,” he murmurs, and the quietness of his voice against the loud thumping of the music and the bar makes Harry want to shiver. “I’m sorry to leave so abruptly, but y’know, show tomorrow morning.”

“No, no, of course,” Harry says, and he meets Louis’ shiny blue eyes, tired with night but bright regardless. “It was really, really nice meeting you, Louis of BBC Radio 1.”

Louis grins at how ridiculously corny he’s being. “And you, Harry of Crystal Veins.” He pauses. “Hey, could I get your number, in case I decide I want to talk about great music and tease you for having a cute smile?”

Harry grins at the floor, and fuck him, that’s exactly what Louis wants to see. Louis pokes his cheek and takes the phone that’s out stretched in front of him. He plugs his number in, and Harry safely tucks it back into his pocket. “Thanks, Lou.”

“You’re welcome, Harry. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes, and Louis’ pulling his coat a little tighter around him as he makes to leave. He turns over his shoulder before he pushes though the crowd. 

“Hey, Harry?” He looks up from where he was staring at the contact in his phone. “Tune into the show tomorrow, okay?”

The words _I always do_ are on the tip of his tongue, but instead he murmurs, “Will do.” And Louis parts with a cheeky wink and his hands stuffed into his pockets. 

***

And he does tune in. It’s bright and early when his alarm clock perks up at 7:30 – he tells himself its okay to miss the first hour of the show. 6:30 is pushing it – and he rubs his tired eyes Louis’ voice is loud and excited, talking about something he hasn’t registered just yet. He sits up and licks his dry lips, listening in a little closer now that he can see straight and recognize what he hears. 

“All right,” Louis is saying, and he’s just about to introduce something new. “So this next song is by three guys, Nate, Zayn, and Harry, and I went to their show last night. Great lads! I had a little chat with one of them, and they put on a wicked show. Check ‘em out! This is Crystal Veins with ‘Right Through Me.’” And Harry’s mouth has dropped straight open, and he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Sure, he’d met a famous radio show host at one of his gigs last night, but it’s not like he was _expecting_ him to play his CD to all of England. He blinks once or twice to make sure he’s not making things up, but sure enough there’s his voice and the steady baseline of his guitar come through the speakers, Zayn’s riffs backing him up with the high wailing of Nate’s guitar. He’s on the radio. He’s in a shitty little indie band with his two mates that decided to get together because they had the same passion, and he’s on the _radio._

He barrels through his flat after pushing off his duvet and storms into Nate’s room. “Nate, shit, turn on your fucking radio!” He’s paying no mind to what he’s saying, and he’s all hyped up, but Nate just rolls over in bed, his messy hair falling all over his eyes. “Nate, you shit, get your arse up!” He goes over to the side of his bed and hits the on button of his radio, and sure enough the chorus of their song is pouring through the flat. 

“Why the bloody hell are you playing that in the morning?” He looks at the time on the alarm clock. “At 7:30 in the morning, to be exact. You’re supposed to be making me breakfast.”

“Shut your trap, you ungrateful prat. _I’m_ not playing it, _Louis Tomlinson_ is playing it for all of England.”

Nate’ eyes snap open, and he sits up in bed. “Radio host Louis Tomlinson? He’s playing our song?” Harry nods frantically, taking a seat next to his friend and listening close just to make sure he’s not dreaming. “How the fuck?…” Nate trails off, because he’s not sure how to even phrase such a question. The three of them are unheard of, completely and utterly. He doesn’t know how they could possibly wind up on England’s most popular radio station. 

“I met him last night,” Harry begins, and he tells him how they sat at the bar and talked, and how he bought their CD and discussed music. He’s uncontrolled and wild with his hand movements, practically screaming about how happy he is. 

“Damn, mate,” Nate says. “Did you fuck or something?”

Harry scowls and stands, their song just ending. “I’ve got to text Zayn. For sure he’s still asleep, but he’ll be fucking buzzing.” He walks to his room and grabs his phone, and Louis is talking about how their music is available on iTunes and telling everyone about their website and their next few gigs, and Harry can’t believe it. He thought that he would be obsolete his whole life – unnoticed and unimportant, like he always has been. He shoots Zayn a text about “good news” and flops back onto his bed, listening to his favorite voice and wondering what caused such good luck. 

***

Their next few gigs sell out. And every time Harry stands in front of those crowds, he wants to thank Louis, shoot him a text or ring him or _something._ But what is he supposed to say, _oh hey Louis thanks for playing my song on your show mate its really great to have a bit of attention haha .x_ ? No. The red hot thrill of playing a show for people who _want_ to see it never grows old. The buzz in his ear and the thrum of his bass and the sound of the cheers pulse through his veins and cause the steady beat of his heart, and his entire life is vicariously lived through the music. He breathes it. When he hears people start to sing along, it’s like all of his childhood dreams of making people happy and making something worthwhile are coming true. His world is moving so fast in this whirlwind of two weeks, that he’s not sure where he’s going next. 

It was Zayn’s bright idea to hire his boyfriend as their manager, and if they were broke up they were fucked, but Harry knows that their so in love that it’s sickening, and Liam’s too kind to ever fuck them over if he and Zayn were to ever go their separate ways. Despite the fact that they’re not signed to a label, they’ve still got CD’s and music on iTunes, so that’s substantial enough. They’re out there. And they’re getting noticed. There’s an upcoming lull after two weeks of gigs, and on the day of the last one for a while, Liam gets to work. Harry’s excited. He’s excited to feel that pulse in his veins of the final show of the week, and he’s excited to sing his heart and to walk the lines of his life on the strings of his bass. That’s what being in the band is for him. It’s energy. It’s life. It’s recreating the memories he’s lived – the good and the bad – and turning them into something beautiful, something that everyone can feel and hear and understand.

His fingers drum against his mic stand the night of that last show. He adjusts the loose strap of his guitar and turns back to look at Zayn who’s flicking his drum sticks in his hands as they wait to start their opening song. Harry touches the sleek maroon of his bass and there’s a burst of light as Zayn counts them down. An unmistakable grin comes across his face when he plays, his heart flooding through his fingertips, and all he sees is blue when sings the words, “And I’ve been waiting all my life to stumble across someone like you. You’re the black of the night, and the blue of all my might.”

Harry’s sweaty when he walks off stage with the biggest thank you he’s ever given to a crowd. He grabs a towel from backstage and wipes the back of his neck, tugging at the hem of his blue shirt and giving Zayn a shit eating grin. Zayn thumps him on the head with a drumstick, and Harry flicks his ear. “Twat.” 

“You love me,” Zayn mutters back, nudging his side and shrugging his leather jacket back on from when he had taken it off during the show. 

“I loved that show more than I will ever love either of you,” Nate mutters, coming up behind them and slinging two heavy arms around their necks. 

“Good to know,” Harry says, and he’s fiddling with his necklaces, itching to get back to the bar. 

Zayn eyes him up and down before he shoves him hard. “Go. We all know you want to flirt for fame.”

“Shut up,” Harry growls. “It’s not for fame.”

“So you’re just flirting?” Nate asks, grin wide and teasing. Harry rolls his eyes. “Who with?”

“Tomlinson was here tonight,” Zayn answers for him, smile just as wide and tone the one that makes Harry desperately want to punch him in the face. 

“How did I wind up in a band with you two?” he sighs exasperatedly, peeling their arms off of him and cracking his back. 

“Ah,” Nate says, and he’s completely ignoring Harry who has a scowl worked across his features and his arms folded across his chest. 

“I’m leaving!” Harry calls as his friends launch into a conversation about how he’s secretly in love with Louis (they don’t know the half of it), and he doesn’t get a response. He comes off from back stage down three rickety steps, and suddenly wrapped up in the club. He can feel the bass of the music thrum through him just like it does on stage, and he feels more alive than he ever has. He strides towards the bar, brown duffle in hand, and pauses behind a small figure laughing next to a blonde who he doesn’t recognize. He leans into his ear and whispers, “Boo.”

Louis jumps and presses a palm over his fast beating heart. He shoves Harry on the chest and growls, “You little fucking shit.” 

Harry smiles charmingly and takes the seat on his other side. “Hi, Louis.”

Louis narrows his eyes but can’t prevent the compliment that spills from his lips. “Another great show you had tonight.”

Harry smiles. “Was it really?”

“Quit being coy, Harry. You know you’re good.”

“I personally thought you were great,” the blonde cuts in, and he recognizes his voice too. Niall Horan. Another radio show host at BBC. He takes a deep breath.

“Thanks, mate.”

Niall grins at him and stretches out a hand right in front of Louis. He takes it and shakes confidently. “Niall Horan.”

“I know,” Harry mutters, and then knows he sounds dumb. “Erm, Harry Styles.”

Niall grins again. “I know.” He glances down at his phone for the time. “Shit, mate. I’ve gotta run. See you tomorrow, Lou. Great show, Harry.” And then he’s gone as fast as he was there, and Harry blinks. 

“Well, that was… brief.”

“Always on the run, that Niall,” Louis laughs, and his head tips back a bit and his hair falls over his eyes, and Harry thinks he’s stunning. He brushes his fringe out of his face and takes a sip of his drink. “How’ve you been, Harry? Busy few weeks, yeah?” 

“Understatement of the century,” Harry breathes, but he does’t elaborate anymore, because he really needs to tell him thanks. “But Louis, I really, really owe you a thank you. I’ve been meaning to tell you all week, but I wasn’t all that sure how to…” 

Louis smiles and his eyes light up and there’s crinkles at the side and he’s absolutely glowing. “Mate, I just played your song, you made yourself likable.” 

Harry’s blushing again, head hung a little bashfully. “Well, thanks anyway.”

“Not a problem,” Louis says, because he knows he’s not going to get away with not accepting the thanks. He props his chin up on his arm and glances at Harry with long eyelashes and pretty eyes. Harry thinks that if he asked him to murder someone he would do it with that look. “So, I’ve had a question for you.”

“Shoot,” Harry says, and he hopes it’s about music. 

“What’s ‘Not Even A Whisper’ about? I mean, I’ve listened to it loads, and, I know it’s about a secret, but…” He trails off, and Harry gets it. He gets that he wants to understand the music – he’s the same way. But his eyes go a little cold and his heart clenches in his chest. He thinks of his song and why he wrote it. He thinks of the first time he sang the words to the lads and how he choked up and stopped. He thinks of his web of lies that he used to weave. 

When Harry was in high school, he hated himself. He used to itch in his skin and thought that maybe if he sliced it open that the itch would go away. He found after the first time, it didn’t help at all. It made him hurt more. It made him hate himself for being so weak as to try something like that. He tried to be confident in who he was, but he couldn’t. He could hear the screams and the torment coming his way before it even happened. And when it did, he left. He was a coward. 

Louis is still looking at him with those soft, curious blue eyes, and Harry clenches his shut. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Hey,” Louis murmurs, and his voice is too hushed and tender for such a loud bar. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I know we’re basically strangers.” Harry curls his hand into a fist and tugs at his curls. He doesn’t think of them as strangers. He owes too much to him. And he wants to get to know him better. Louis glances at him with gentle eyes and carefully moves his hand out of his hair. “Don’t do that, Harry.” And he’s not harsh in his order; he’s concerned. 

“I want to tell you,” Harry says, and his voice is throaty and low. “I want to – I just don’t know if I can. Not, not yet.”

Louis sends him another look and attaches his hand to Harry’s wrist. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.” 

Harry looks down at his bag. “But–”

“You’ve got bandmates, c’mon. We’re leaving. I have a place I want to show you.”

Harry nods, and he wants to slide his hand down to twine their fingers together, but he doesn’t. Instead Louis presses a finger to the red of his fast beating pulse in his veins. Harry’s okay with that.

***

Harry’s surrounded by a lot of red. He runs his hands along it, and nothing is left on his fingers. He likes it. The walls are tainted. Or, not so much tainted, they’re marked, branded with a memory of a passerby who has come and gone and left what they had to say. Harry likes it a lot. There’s a mattress on the floor, and Louis is looking up at him where he maps the messages with his fingertips. His eyes haven’t lost their light once this night. Harry likes that, too. 

He’s probably went around the room twice already, so he walks over to where Louis is seated and eyes the mattress skeptically. “Is that okay to sit on?” 

Louis laughs. It’s high and tinkling and it echoes around the empty building. “Yeah. I’ve brought it, and no one else comes here.” 

Harry shrugs and takes a seat next to him, legs extended in front of him, unlike Louis’ compact Indian style. “What exactly is this place?” His eyes are still searching, looking at the colorful graffiti that paints the walls and the messages that are left from people who no longer returning. They are just a single stroke on a painting that is the building. 

“An abandoned warehouse. I found it ages ago and no one comes by. There hasn’t been a new painting in ages. And I’ve always wanted to leave my own message, but I’ve never thought of one.” 

Harry meets his eyes fleetingly as he murmurs, “Well, who knows? Maybe we’ll think of something.” He bites his lip to prevent the smile that tries to spread across his face at the glint in Louis’ eyes. 

“Maybe,” Louis echoes, and he flops back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Harry falls back too, their arms barely touching. He sees a star sticker that he assumes would glow in the dark if they turned off the lights. He wonders how it got there. He wants to put more. He wants to make the whole room light up, even though Louis’ smile seems to do that already. 

“I like it here,” Harry decides aloud, but Louis has got his eyes closed, so he doesn’t see the look Harry’s giving him. “I like it a lot.”

***

Harry’s surrounded by more gadgets than he’s probably ever seen in his entire life. Even more than the studio. His fingertips run over the buttons without pushing down, and Louis is watching him with a fond little smile on his face. He’s at the radio station, and it’s an ungodly hour in the morning, but Harry’s got on his favorite Rolling Stones shirt and a flannel over that, so he’s comfy in his clothes and in Louis’ presence. He always feels comfortable around him. He can’t place why. 

Before they had left the warehouse the night before Louis had propositioned him about coming to the station, and Harry had agreed without a beat. Of course, when having found out about the news, Zayn and Nate teased him relentlessly, but he flipped them off and told them that they were “jealous shits.” So now they were standing there at the most terrible time of day in Harry’s opinion (Louis’ too, but he just had no choice), waiting for the show to start. He is sat next to him the whole time, and when he opens up with his song on the radio, he could probably kiss him, (he really, really wants to kiss him.) Louis’ voice is loud and booming when he says good morning, and Harry thinks he is really happy. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s smiled this much, but god has he missed it. Harry thinks that he might want to write some songs again. 

***

“Can you fucking smoke outside, please?” 

Nate whistles low. “Damn, Harold, Tomlinson leave your knickers in a twist?” Harry scowls, but Nate gets up either way and goes out onto their little balcony. The thing about Nate is that he’s easy going. He doesn’t really need a schedule and nothing needs to be set and stone. He likes to get high and sit on park benches with Harry and Zayn and watch random people go by. They’ll pick one out and then make up their whole life story just based on what they look like or who they’re with, without speaking to them once. He wears his hair in a bun and plays guitar at three in the morning, and Harry’s really lucky to have him, even though he likes to smoke in their flat. 

Harry’s tapping his pencil on his pad of paper, and so far the only words he has are scratched out, and the little penis that Nate drew on the corner of the page. He groans in frustration as he takes another sip of his tea and leans back into the couch. “Fuck,” he murmurs. He has inspiration, but the dingy inside of his shitty flat is sucking the life out of him. When Nate comes back from his smoke, he still has nothing, and he gives him a funny look.

“What’ up with you, mate? You would’ve normally cranked something out by now. I mean, when you write, you _write_.” 

“Shit, I know,” Harry sighs. “I don’t know what’s up.”

“Hey, man, you know what I always say.”

Harry sighs again and at the same time they mutter, “Write where you find the light, prick.”

Harry goes where he thinks there might be light.

***

Well, he actually brings some light with him. And a string of origami flowers he made when he was bored. They’re tucked into a small duffle he has slung over his shoulder, much like the one that has his CD’s in it. He actually has a few with him, he always does. He wanders a little until he finds the place he had visited a few days before, and when he reaches his destination a smile spreads across his face, and he’s right about the warehouse needing a little brightening up. He sets up his iPhone on a portable speaker and blasts his latest musical obsession and sings at the top of his lungs as he struggles for twenty minutes to hang the string of Christmas lights he bought from the store even though it’s the middle of April. He now knows to never doubt the stores. He lets the origami flowers hang from the ceiling and he realizes he’s going to have to make a fuck of a lot more, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a stress relief to him. 

He’s the old stool that was in the warehouse when he arrived when a booming voice yells at him, “Harold! That’s not safe.” Harry nearly loses his balance, and holds his hands out for balance, turning around to scowl at his intruder. 

“ _That’s_ not safe, Louis. Shouting at a person on a stool. Maniac, you are.” He’s kidding and smiling, so Louis sees right through it. 

“Certified maniac, actually. I have a license to go around scaring people.” Harry raises his eyebrows, but has nothing to say back as he plops onto the mattress where his stuff is gathered. He smirks when he comes up with a retort. 

“Don’t you already do that on the radio?”

Louis shakes his head slowly in disdain. “Hence the certification, Harold. Duh.” Harry scowls, but when Louis comes and sits down next to him, he can’t help the soft smile that spreads across his face as their arms brush. “So what brings you here?”

“I could ask the same,” Harry murmurs, leaning back on his forearms, staring at the walls with endless words. 

“Yeah,” Louis starts slowly, “but I asked first.”

Harry laughs and digs into his bag, taking out his notepad and pencil. He taps it once against his leg and sighs. “I was trying to write songs, but nothing was coming to me.” The song changes. Harry’s eyes light up. “See, like this song. I’ve always wanted to write a song about sex that doesn’t sound shitty like Rihanna’s, but I’ve just never been able to.”

“Why, do you have a lot of sex?” Louis teases, crinkles pulling at his eyes. 

Harry laughs. “Not really, no.” Or, not anymore, he thinks.

Louis says nothing at that but asks another question instead. He pokes Harry’s arm. “Who’s this?”

“Walk the Moon, also known as my latest obsession. They’re an American band, and I’m in love with them.” 

Louis pouts and holds a hand to his chest. “I’m crushed.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind another fan,” Harry jokes. Louis scowls, hits Harry playfully on the leg, but listens close. He doesn’t move his hand. Harry’s very aware of it.“When you are close to me I shiver,” Harry sings, paying no mind to Louis looking at him with that. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and Louis says, “You’ve got a lovely voice, you know.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry responds with a blush. 

It goes silent again, just the music and their breathing, and Harry stares down at his blank page. He doesn’t notice Louis’ eyes following his own until he wonders, “How do you write songs with other music playing?”

Harry laughs. “Oh, I don’t. I play classical, usually.”

“Y’know, that’s really great, mate, that you can appreciate all kinds of music.”

Harry smiles again. His voice is soft. “I think that’s part of being a musician, y’know?”

“Yeah, I just think it’s cool.”

Harry changes the music after that, both of them falling into silence as Harry scratches lyrics onto paper and Louis watches with a soft breath on Harry’s neck as he leans over him and a soothing pattern on his thigh. Harry isn’t bothered in the least. 

At the end of his song, he decides he’s satisfied with the lyrics. 

_Your breath on my neck,_

_Your lips on my cheek,_

_Your heart next to mine,_

_So c’mon baby let’s put it in drive_

Louis doesn’t comment on the words that he puts down on the paper, he just stays close and smiles a little more. 

***

Harry comes back a few days later. He texts Louis this time, just in case. He’s greeted with a hug, and Harry can’t help but lean down and burrow into his neck. He feels maroon again. Comfortable and warm. Louis’ arms are tight around his waist. He likes it. That makes him feel a little redder. Like when he’s on stage. 

In the middle of a line Harry’s scrawling out, Louis asks, “Why do you call yourselves Crystal Veins?”

Harry takes a deep breath and wonders how he’s going to approach the question. He could go into depth, but he’s not so sure he wants to tell everything to Louis just yet. So he says simply, “It’s like, when you think crystals, you think see-through, y’know? But really, they show a reflection of what you’re giving them, whatever your bring to the plate, so we as a band have always tried to reflect what we stand for.”

“And what’s that?” Louis asks softly.

“Honesty. Being genuine. I dunno. Crystal is fragile, and we only want those good things pumping through our veins.” Harry’s quiet.

Louis nods, a teasing smirk coming across his face. “And lust, correct?” 

“And lust. Lust in our veins.”

They fall quiet again.

***

It’s 7 AM and Harry’s phone is ringing. He rolls over just to check over who it is and groans when he sees the name and stupid picture he set popping up on his screen. This’ll be good. “Lou, what the fuck are you calling me for at this hour?”

Louis gasps. “Harold. You can’t say things like that on the radio!”

Harry groans again and sits up. “I’m not on the radio.”

“Think again, bubs.”

“Shit,” Harry murmurs, because he registers that it’s 7 on a Thursday morning and that can only mean that he has just been woken up live to all of Britain.

“Language, Harry!”

“Shut up.”

Louis ignores his comment and continues on with his show. He wonders how much he’s already embarrassed himself. “Now, Harry,” he starts, and Harry can hear the smirk in his voice, “I don’t know how much Radio One you listen to,” (a lot) “but, if you don’t already know, we really ask the _hard hitting_ questions. To start off this impromptu interview, I must ask, really, what is your favorite fruit?”

Harry pauses for a moment. That was most certainly not what he was expecting. “Erm, bananas…”

“Oh, so you’re into the phallic fruits, are you?” Harry rolls his eyes even though he knows Louis can’t see. “Hmm… no comment, interesting. Anyway, moving on. Being typically ‘indie’ or so they call it, how tight do you wear your pants? And do you or any of your band members wear quote unquote hipster glasses?”

“Oh my god, Louis, you have to be kidding me.”

“Harry, this is an interview. You have to answer all of the questions.”

Harry sighs heavily and rubs his tired eyes. “I’d say my pants are more than moderately tight, and Zayn wears hipster glasses when he’s trying too hard.” He knows he’s going to get shit for that later, but hey, truth be told. 

Louis laughs, and then hangs up. Harry screams hello into the phone for about thirty seconds until he realizes that there’s no one on the other end and scrambles to turn on his radio to hear whatever other shit Louis’ going to say about him. He just hears the end of him talking about who he was, and that the Crystal Veins have a few more dates in London over the next few weeks, and then are planning to release a full album if everything works out. Harry smiles at the sound of his voice and leans back when Two Door Cinema Club comes on. 

***

“What’s your favorite song?” Louis asks out of the blue, and they’re staring up at the ceiling of the warehouse, arms brushing, breath light. Harry had been writing, but he wanted to take a break, so he paused the music so he could listen to Louis’ voice and stare up at the lone star above him. 

“I’d never be able to tell you that,” Harry answers, and it’s honest.

“Keeping secrets now, are you, Styles?” Harry wants to say that he has no idea, but that’s not how he meant it. 

“No, not that, I just don’t think I have one. I listen to so much music that I’d never be able to decide.”

Louis runs a hand through his hair. “That’s understandable.”

Harry hums and wants to grab Louis’ hand. He doesn’t. “What’s yours?” he asks.

“Keep Your Head Up – Ben Howard,” Louis murmurs without missing a beat. 

“Love him,” Harry says, and he lets his eyes flutter shut, tired. “Can we take a nap?” he asks sleepily. 

A cheeky smirk finds its way onto Louis’ face. “Only if we can cuddle,” he says. 

Harry grins and lets Louis fold himself into his side, his head resting on Harry’s chest and Harry’s arm curling around him. Harry’s comfortable again. He likes it. His hand absently rubs a pattern up and down Louis’ arm, and Louis’ nose tickles his collarbone. He falls asleep without trouble. 

***

When Harry wakes up, he wakes up to blue, the same blue he saw at the concert and the same blue he would like to see a lot more of. Louis is propped up on one elbow, and he’s looking right down into Harry’s eyes. Harry sends him a sleepy smile and says, “watching me in my sleep, are you?”

Louis doesn’t miss a beat. “Yep. You talk.”

“I’ve been told. What was I saying?” Harry asks, and he has this dopey grin on his face that shows that he’s really just happy.

“Um, you said something about grapes, your bass, my name once, something about Nate making everything smell like shit, and koala cubs.”

Harry sits up and shrugs. “It’s been weirder.”

“Interesting,” Louis murmurs. They look at each other for a while, just glassy eyes staring, and Louis blurts, “I’d quite like to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, and he cups Louis’ face in his hands and meets him halfway for a soft kiss. He angles head to the left to let their lips gently move together, and Harry feels a spark of red. Louis’ hands come up into his hair and curl tightly, and Harry licks into his mouth, letting their tongues slide together. He feels warm, now that the red has died down, because they’ve lost the rush and are just kissing slow. Louis crawls onto his lap and pushes him back, and it’s gentle, their kisses. Harry feels so, so good, his hands on Louis’ waist, but once he registers what they’re doing he has to stop. He can’t keep going; he can’t let it get any farther that it already has. “Lou,” he mumbles against his lip. Louis kisses him again. “Lou, Lou, Lou, _stop_.” 

Louis pulls back at once, at that word. He leans up and puts his own hands on top of where Harry’s are on his hips. “What?” he asks. “Does me breath smell weird or something?”

Harry wants to laugh, but he gently lifts Louis off of his lap. His heart hurts when he sees the frown that works its way onto Louis’ face that he is not used to seeing upset. He does not feel red. “I–” he falters. “I can’t do this– I just, I have to go.” And he scrambles up and gathers his things, and leaves Louis alone on the floor of the beautiful warehouse with the lone star and the twinkling lights and no one to keep him company. 

***

Harry knows exactly when he started pushing people away. He got pushed first, is what he tells himself, which wasn’t a lie, but it was no excuse. Yet, he never relented, and never let himself get too close. He was the cause of his own demise and he’s always hated himself for it. He still does. 

He knows that it started when he was fourteen. Harry used to be a liar. He lied to his family. He lied to himself. He hated the fact that he liked boys. It made him feel so _different,_ and he would have never thought that he would accept it like he does now. But that feeling – that feeling where you’re alone in a a crowded room and you’re completely by yourself – that was the one he hated the most. It made him feel drained. So he lied, and made himself someone he was not. 

When he was in year 10, he got a boyfriend. It was hidden. It was casual and loose and meaningless, but Harry was in love with him. He was so in love with him, and when Harry tells him how he feels, he’s dropped like a glass vase only to be shattered on the ground. He saw the other side of him, after they broke up, because his ex-boyfriend told the whole school who he was. He told everyone his big secret, and Harry wasn’t sure what to do. His parents thought he was weak for being so upset and thought he was disgusting for being gay. Harry had never hated himself more in his life.

He took his bass and ran. He used the little money he had and escaped to London. He started playing and singing on the streets. And he started fucking boys. He could get his fix and never worry about his heart. He barely scraped by, and when he ran into his sister Gemma, he thought it was the only thing that would set him straight. He hadn’t seen her in years. She’d graduated uni and she was Harry’s only hope. So he found himself with the help of music and his sister and lots of encouragement. But he never was able to fully _trust_ someone he had interest in again. He would find someone he liked, but there was a constant _what if he breaks your heart?_ in the back of his head. He felt on edge whenever he went out. So he pushed everyone away, only leaving his heart in the hands of his sister and Zayn and Nate and his bass guitar. 

***

Harry goes home and cries. He cries because he hates that he does this to everyone, and he cries because people have done it to him and he knows exactly what it feels like, and he’s just made another person feel that kind of pain. He cries because he saw Louis’ heartbreak on his face, and he cries because he looks so beautiful when he smiles, and he’s at fault for making him hurt. He’s thankful that Nate’s not home because he’s making embarrassing snuffling noises and he kind of wants to die. He’s surrounded by grey. He passes out in bed that night without dinner and ignoring every text that comes into his phone. He hopes none of them are from Louis.

The next day he writes a ballad. The paper is stained with tears, and he hopes that when he performs his song, nobody will relate, because feeling like this is the worst way to live. He’s thankful it’s a Sunday because he thinks if he woke up to Louis’ voice he might’ve cried more. On Monday, Louis still plays his song. Harry really wants to kiss him again.

On Tuesday, Harry tries to test his luck and goes to the warehouse. He sits on the mattress on the floor and drowns himself in the Cinematic Orchestra for two hours and doesn’t even bother to pick up his pencil. Louis never shows up.

On Wednesday, the same thing happens. (Although, his choice in music is different. He goes for Ray LaMontagne.)

On Thursday, he cries when Keep Your Head Up comes on, because keeping his head up has never been something he’s good with. 

On Friday, Louis shows up. Harry’s on his back staring at the ceiling and the star when he hears the heavy door swing open. He sits up straight away, and when Louis meets his glance he has to look away. His eyes look sad. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t yet feel red.

“Didn’t know if you’d been coming,” Louis says, and he doesn’t sit. Harry stands.

“Nearly every day this week,” Harry breathes. Their eyes meet. and Harry thinks of when they kissed. He still wants to do it again. “Can I kiss you again?”

Louis smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Won’t be leaving me again, will you, Curly?” He tugs on a piece of Harry’s hair.

“I won’t. I promise.” So Louis lets Harry kiss him, and Harry thinks he’s never let out a bigger breath. He keeps his forehead pressed to Louis’ when he pulls away. “Not going anywhere,” he whispers. 

Louis is still lost. “I– can you tell me?” he asks, and Harry knows what he means. 

He tells him everything. 

For once, he feels safe. His heart is in the palm of someone else’s hand but he doesn’t like that he’s going to drop. 

***

Harry has been feeling red a lot more. He feels red every time he’s on stage and every time his hand brushes Louis and every time his lips match the color of his mood. 

On Saturday, he plays a show, and when he closes, he doesn’t sit at the bar. He finds Louis and takes his hand and they run on the sidewalks of London and go to their warehouse. They shut main lights off but the ones Harry strung are shimmering, and Harry’s pushed up against the wall. His hands are on Louis’ bum and Louis is peppering his neck with kisses and marking him so his neck is red, too. Harry’s erection his pressing against his thigh, and Louis whispers in his ear how hot he is, how much he wants to fuck him. 

They find the way to their mattress and they leave a path of clothes behind them. Harry loves Louis’ skin. He wants to run his hands all over it. So when he’s pushed back on to the mattress, he does. Louis preps him with the lube from Harry’s bag on his fingers and sucks on his neck and tells him that he’s gonna fuck him good. Harry breathes heavily in response and when he makes to tug on Louis’ cock his hand is slapped away. Louis fucks him into the mattress that they’ve spoken so much about, and it feels good, it feels right, it feels red. 

And when they come Harry says that he’s never wanted something more and that he _trusts_ him. They look up at the ceiling. They stuck another star. It’s not alone. They’re both glowing.


End file.
